


Running With Scissors

by watanuki_sama



Category: Common Law (TV)
Genre: A shameless amount of commas and run-on sentences, Canon-Compliant, Character Study, M/M, Some Swearing, Wes-centric, Wesvis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-12
Updated: 2017-08-12
Packaged: 2018-12-14 15:46:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,203
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11786340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/watanuki_sama/pseuds/watanuki_sama
Summary: Wesley Mitchell is not a reckless person. Except, it seems, around Travis.





	Running With Scissors

**Author's Note:**

> HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO ME!!
> 
> I was thinking random thoughts one day, and I decided that ‘Running With Scissors’ would be kind of an awesome title for a fic. Everything else just sort of spawned from there.
> 
> Also posted on FF.net under the penname 'EFAW' on 08.12.17.

_“Life is all about taking risks to get what you want.”_   
_—Adam Lambert_

\---

Wesley Mitchell is not a reckless person. He is methodical, and finicky, and he likes things a certain way. He is detail-oriented, always making sure everything is in its place, and anything out of place will promptly be put into its place.

He doesn’t do anything on impulse. He thinks everything through, from buying a new car to making his grocery lists to planning a trip. He maps out everything he needs and ponders all the variables and only when he feels he has made a fully-informed decision does he take a step forward. 

People say a lot of things about him. He’s been called anal-retentive, a neat-freak (emphasis on _freak_ ), a perfectionist. He’s heard every OCD joke under the sun, heard snide comments about his need to be in control. He’s been called a killjoy, a buzzkill, a stickler for the rules, but the rules are there for a reason and he doesn’t understand why something would be fun if it’s breaking the rules.

Combine this with a sharp personality and he ends up pushing most people away. Oh, he has a few coworkers he’s friendly with, can casually share conversation in the break room, but no one close. He’s not the one invited for drinks after work. (He was asked, once, and he turned them down because he had a legitimate obligation. As his coworker left, he heard her companion say, “See, I told you he wouldn’t want to come.” He’s never been asked since.)

Wes doesn’t really have any friends.

And he’s fine with that! (He says he fine with that.) He has Alex, who is his wife and his friend and the best damn thing that’s ever happened to him. If he has her, he doesn’t need anything else.

It’s completely fine.

\---

Paekman is his friend at the precinct, the first person he actually really _considers_ to be his friend.

They meet on the shooting range. Property Crimes and Missing Persons are on the same floor, and they’ve passed each other in the hall a few times, but never long enough to stop and chat. Wes could pick the man out of a lineup, but he’s not sure he even knows the guy’s name.

So he’s on the range, shooting, practicing. He’s never had to pull his weapon—Missing Persons, really, doesn’t have a lot of need for that sort of thing. But there’s always a chance, and he has a gun for a reason, so it’s always a good idea to stay in practice. This is where his detail-oriented precision comes in—he makes the bullets go exactly where he wants them to go.

(He consistently had some of the highest shooting scores in his Academy class. It was one of the few things that made his teachers look past their disdain for a former-lawyer-turned-cop and give him anything close to approval.)

He’s got a neat cluster right in the center of the paper target’s chest, and when he pulls the ear protectors off he hears a low whistle behind him. He turns, and there’s a mildly familiar Asian man leaning on the partition, eyebrows raised as he looks at Wes’s target.

“Nice shootin Tex,” he drawls. Then he grins, boyish and bright. “You’ve got some skills, man.”

“Thanks,” Wes says, rolling up his target. 

There’s a long, empty silence that Wes isn’t entirely certain how to fill. This is normally the point when people roll their eyes and walk away; instead, the man holds out his hand and says, “David Paek, but you can call me Paekman. Everybody does.” He pauses, tilts his head, eyes narrowing a little. “You’re from Missing Persons, right?”

“Um. Yeah.” That slots things into place— _now_ he recognizes the man. “Wesley Mitchell. You’re in Property Crimes, aren’t you?”

“That’s me.” Paekman gives his hand a few solid pumps, his grin never wavering. “Nice to meet you, Wes.”

And that should be the end of it, he thinks, except it’s _not_. Paekman comes by soon after, and there’s a stunned silence in Missing Persons when he slings his arm around Wes’s shoulders and drags him out to lunch. They can’t believe this is happening—Wes can’t quite believe it himself. But it is, and at the end of lunch, when Wes is certain he’s alienated Paekman forever with his brusque, sharp personality, Paekman instead claps his arm and says, “We should totally do this again! How’s Thursday work for you?”

And so, two or three times a week they have lunch together. If they’re passing in the halls, and they’re not on an urgent mission, they’ll stop for a few minutes and chat. Paekman starts hanging out in Missing Persons (“You guys have _way_ better coffee over here, I mean holy _cow_ ”) and Wes becomes a familiar face in Property Crimes. 

The first time Paekman asks him out for drinks after work, Wes feels like he’s passed a milestone.

Paekman is his friend, the first person he’s considered such since he joined the police department. And it’s…good. It’s really good. He trusts Paekman.

Paekman is the only person he tells about the missing working girls, after his captain shuts down his investigation because there’s not enough evidence, not enough _interest_ because they’re _only_ working girls—as though that means they don’t have lives and families and every right to be found like every other missing person they search for.

Paekman sits there and listens as Wes tells him everything, the files in his desk and the late nights spent working on something he technically shouldn’t and the frustrated, burning ache low in his gut because he _knows_ they’re dead, and he _knows_ someone else is going to go missing if he can’t stop it but they won’t _let_ him.

Paekman listens, and he makes a soft, thoughtful humming sound when Wes is done, and honestly, Wes is pretty sure he doesn’t care— _no one_ cares—but he appreciates that Paekman let him rant. And he figures that’s that and he tries to put it out of his mind.

A few days later he meets Travis.

\---

Everyone knows how they meet. It’s part of the story, part of the legend that grows—two cops, frustrated because no one is listening, meeting up and catching a serial killer.

What nobody knows are the details, the late nights in Travis’s trailer or Wes’s living room, files copied and smuggled home, spread out on the table. Theories thrown back and forth, leads chased down on the weekends that lead to dead end after dead end. Another missing girl, and another, and their determination only grows. They’re _going_ to find this guy, they’re going to _make sure_ another girl doesn’t go missing on their watch.

Wes figures once they have something solid, some real lead they can track, they’ll take it to their superiors and get the official go-ahead. He’s a little fuzzy on the exact details, which is odd because details are what he’s so very good at, but it’s just—he _needs_ to find this guy, and details are inconsequential when the bigger picture is so much more important.

He doesn’t realize Travis is thinking something entirely different until they finally make a break, nearly six weeks after they start. This is something real, something _tangible_ , something he can take to his captain and finally get some support and no one else has to go missing, no one else ever again.

And Travis, staring pensively at their evidence, clasps his hands in front of his face and says, “We need to catch this guy.”

“I know,” Wes says tiredly, running his hand over his face, because he’s been saying that for six weeks, for longer, ever since that first file crossed his desk. Does Travis think he’s balking now that they’re so close?

“No,” Travis says, his eyes dark and determined, tearing through Wes like a lazer beam. “I mean, _we_ need to catch this guy.”

And Wes’s tired brain picks up the emphasis and slots it into place, and he goes, “Oh.” And then he goes, “Really?” and “Can we? _Should_ we?” because there’s catching a serial killer with the force of the police department behind them, and then there’s catching a serial killer all by their lonesome, just the two of them against a monster.

“Wes,” Travis says, because that’s stuck ( _Wesley_ , he’s always been, _Wesley_ is a good, upstanding citizen who always follows the rules, and _Wes_ is…) “Wes,” and he leans over and wraps his hand around Wes’s, and his eyes are so sharp, so determined, and so, so tired of missing girls, just as tired as he is. “We gotta. We’re the only ones who can.”

Wesley Mitchell is not a reckless person. He is methodical and detail-oriented and he always follows the rules. He’s not the type of person to buck the chain of command and go gallivanting after a serial killer without backup and proper authorization.

But…

But there are so many girls, and no one is listening, except Travis, _Travis_ is listening, so Wes takes a breath and then another and he listens right back.

_We’re the only ones who can._

“Okay,” he says slowly, “Okay. What do we do?”

Wesley Mitchell is not a reckless person.

Except, it seems, around Travis.

\---

They get a commendation. They get an award and a little piece of paper that has words like _Excellence_ and _Beyond the call of duty_ and no one mentions that they went in alone because no one would listen.

They get a commendation because they found the killer, found the _bodies_ , and the department doesn’t want to admit just how badly they fucked up (three more girls missing from the time Wes brought the case to his captain to the time they caught the man, and Wes knows every one of their names).

And just like that, they’re the heroes of the department, and everyone on the inside knows they were left adrift, but there’s a public front, that everyone was united in this effort and it’s all one big happy blue family (except Phil, poor Phil gets thrown under the bus and moves to Beverly Hills).

Wes doesn’t care about any of it. It doesn’t matter. They caught the guy and no more girls will go missing and he can sleep easy now.

At the ceremony, Wes shakes Travis’s hand, and in the media lights and camera flashes, Travis smiles, his face a picture of weary, exhausted relief, and Wes echoes the same look right back at him.

\---

They get partnered together. Of course they do—the department needs all the good press it can get, and promoting the two hotshot detectives to Robbery-Homicide is a good move. Wes doesn’t mind. He’s tired of Missing Persons anyway, tired of the sideways looks and the false solicitousness as everyone tries to cozy up to him and acts like they didn’t alienate him and push him away until he had to find outside help.

As they’re unloading their desks, after they’ve met Captain Sutton and the rest of RHD, Travis looks up, eyes dancing, and grins. “This is gonna be _awesome_ , man.”

And Travis’s grin must be a little bit infectious, because Wes’s own lips curl upward.

It shouldn’t work. They shouldn’t work together, two people at opposite ends of the spectrum. Wes is neat; Travis is messy. Wes likes details, likes everything in its place; Travis doesn’t care where something is so long as he can find it if he needs it. Wes likes the rules, follows the rules; Travis thinks rules are more of guidelines, and stretches the boundaries as much as he possibly can.

Travis is so, so very reckless, and Wes…is not.

It shouldn’t work, but it _does_. Somehow, they’re both such extremes that they balance each other out, meet in the middle. Wes tempers Travis’s recklessness, forces Travis to actually _think_ about what he’s doing for a few seconds. Travis pulls Wes out of his head, drags him into situation after situation and Wes can’t deliberate on all the potential futures, there’s no _time_.

It shouldn’t work, but it _does_. Wes can’t explain it. But that’s alright. No one else can either.

\---

(“You were that crazy kid in kindergarten who’d always run around with the scissors wide open, weren’t you?” Wes accuses with narrowed eyes, giving Travis a little shove.)

\---

Wes doesn’t realize exactly how much things have shifted until he’s chasing after a suspect because Travis said they should go in without waiting for backup (“It’ll take them ten minutes to get here, Wes, the guy’ll be long gone by then, we can get him without even breaking a sweat” and somehow that actually sounded _reasonable_ to him). He’s running flat out, his gun in his hand, breathing too hard to even shout after the guy—who is some sort of Olympic sprinter or something, god _damn_ the man can run—and as his dress shoes pound on the pavement he has the absurd thought that _This is all Travis’s fault_.

Definitely. Absolutely. Before Travis came along, Wes _never_ would have gone racing after an armed suspect without backup, not in a million years. He would have sat tight until backup arrived and if the guy got away, he would have doggedly pursued every lead until they found him again.

_This_. This is not what Wesley Mitchell does. This is _reckless_.

This is like _Travis_.

Just then, Travis comes flying out of a side alley and tackles the guy right in the middle, bringing them both to the ground. Wes skids to a halt, gun up, but there’s no shot, not with the way Travis and the guy are rolling on the asphalt, and it’s idiotic and stupid, wrestling with a man who has a gun, and it’s so _Travis_ and Wes idly wonders when Travis started rubbing off on him.

With judicious application of dirty moves such as hair-pulling and elbows to soft, vulnerable places, Travis wins, leaps to his feet with the guy’s gun in his hand, as well as his own. He’s got a scrape on his cheek and the knees of his jeans are both torn and one of his eyes is going to swell up black by tomorrow. 

But he grins in triumph and slaps the cuffs on their guy and crows, “Aw yeah, who’s the best.”

Wes holsters his gun and rolls his eyes. “You’re an idiot, is what you are.”

\---

Wesley Mitchell is not a reckless person. Wes Mitchell is. And there shouldn’t be a difference, not when they’re the exact same person, but somehow, there is.

Compared to Travis, Wes is the most straight-laced tight-ass in the world, but that’s only because Travis’s recklessness knows no bounds. But Wes can look at how he _was_ and compare that to how he _is_ and he can see the change.

\---

Alex can see the change, too, and Alex doesn’t like it.

Oh, she likes that he’s happier in his job, more content. She says she’s glad he spends less time in the yard, which was always a (fairly accurate) measure of his mood. And she loves Travis, always lights up when he comes over, always answers the phone with a bright, delighted smile on her face. She loves Travis the way Wes loves Travis, the way _everyone_ loves Travis because he’s so hard _not_ to love.

But she doesn’t like the changes Travis incites in Wes. The longer they’re together, the more her face tightens at the corners, and the less she wants to talk about his work. There’s anger in her eyes, and frustration—and fear, so much fear, that one of these days his newfound recklessness will get himself hurt, will get himself _killed_ and he’ll never come home again.

They only really talk about it once, early in Wes’s second year as Travis’s partner. They’re in bed, and she runs her hands down his side, gentle, light, hardly-there touches, fingertips caressing bruised purple and black skin. He can feel her worry in the air, a thick, tangible thing, but no matter how tightly he holds her, she doesn’t relax.

Finally, she lays her hand on his side (no pressure, just heat), and whispers, “This isn’t like you.”

Wes understands what she’s saying, can make the comparison himself between who he was and who he is now. But the thing is, he doesn’t _feel_ like a different person. He still feels like _himself_. He can _see_ the differences, but he can’t _feel_ the differences.

“Maybe,” he says softly, “Maybe it is, now.”

Maybe Wes Mitchell is just a little bit more reckless than Wesley Mitchell ever could be, and that’s just how it is.

(And maybe, in the end, that’s what drives them apart. Because Alex didn’t marry _Wes Mitchell_ , she married the straight-laced, methodical, detail-oriented lawyer, and in Missing Persons he was still a lawyer pretending to be a cop, but now…now he _is_ a cop. He’s someone else now.

In the end, the split is amicable, and he can’t blame her. No, he can’t blame her at all.)

\---

Paekman dies.

No. Paekman is _murdered_ , and that’s a deeper guilt, a sharper guilt than the missing working girls ever were, because _they_ put Paekman there, he and Travis put Paekman in that parking lot and it’s _their_ fault he’s dead. 

(It almost a deep a guilt as Anthony, almost tears him apart as much, but this time Travis is there, and that…helps.)

Rules go out the window when it’s his friend who is dead. They gets as much as they can, which isn’t enough. When that doesn’t work, they follow Crowl, keep following him, until they’ve both been talked to by Captain Sutton, multiple times. But Paekman is _dead_ , and neither of them can let it rest.

Until the gun. Until Crowl leans down to whisper in Travis’s ear, and Travis just…just _loses_ it, pulls his gun and walks with murder in his eyes. This is the recklessness that’s going to get Travis killed one day, this inability to think things through, and Wes can’t let that happen. Travis is… Travis is his partner, his friend, his whole world now that Alex has left and he can’t let Travis walk out of here.

It’s funny. Wes has done so many reckless things, with Travis, to Travis, _for_ Travis, but this. This is carefully calculated, a thousand possibilities racing through his head at once, and every possible future ends in disaster. For _him_.

But Travis stays safe. That’s all that matters.

It’s the most reckless thing Wes has ever done in his life, and it’s not reckless at all.

\---

Agreeing to the captain’s suggestion is a different kind of recklessness, one that leaves him feeling queasy and anxious. Because seriously, _couple’s counseling?_

But it’s the only way he can stay with Travis, so Wes takes a chance and says yes.

\---

Couple’s counseling is hell. It works, there’s no denying that, and Travis and Wes are better than they’ve been in a long time. But he hates it, hates having Dr. Ryan try and pry into his mind, his heart, try to figure out how he works. It’s easier to be the asshole of the group, shutting down everything aimed his way and not letting anything but the bare minimum slip.

She’s good, though, Dr. Ryan is. She doesn’t take any of his crap and pushes and pushes until something eventually gets through.

But Wes is good too, knows how to sidestep verbal landmines without ever setting one off, and some of his old cautiousness comes into play. He holds back, guards himself, and only very rarely lets on more than he intends to.

He’s pretty sure she knows what he’s doing, but she never pushes too far, doesn’t ask for more than he’s willing to give. For six long months the status quo doesn’t change.

And then they break her trust. She kicks them out of the group. And Crowl…Crowl is…

They need her. Wes hates to admit it, but they need Dr. Ryan to fix things.

So he and Travis sit down, and Wes does the hardest thing he’s ever done, the most reckless—he bares everything, his entire fucking _soul_ , and it’s the most terrifying thing he’s ever experienced (and he’s been _shot at_ so that says a lot) because he’s exposing _everything_ and he has _no idea_ how Travis is going to react and he doesn’t… he’s never…

But Travis responds, is honest and just as open, and the _rush_ Wes feels, relief and joy and heart-pounding exhilaration running through his veins, it makes his head spin. 

Maybe this is what it’s like for Travis, every time, this sense of pure, unadulterated _freedom_. No _wonder_ the man keeps throwing himself into situations if _this_ is what it’s like.

Compared to _that_ , finding Crowl, catching Crowl in the act is _nothing_.

Standing in the evidence locker, their eyes meet, and Wes reaches out, and Travis reaches out, and as they shake hands he can hear Paekman in the background, an echo of a memory saying _“Go ahead, boys. Shake hands.”_ And it feels like all the detritus between them has been swept away, leaving a clean slate.

It feels like a new beginning.

\---

They still go to couple’s counseling. Voluntarily, this time, which means Wes has to actually _try_ , he can’t deflect and avoid everything by saying it’s court mandated and he doesn’t want to be there. The simple fact that he’s sitting in that hard plastic chair each week is proof that he _does_.

So Wes tries. It’s not easy, not in the slightest—he’s spent a lifetime being cautious in everything he does, including dealing with and parsing out his emotions, and opening up, exposing himself to the group is difficult.

But he’s been Travis’s partner for so many years now, and Travis’s recklessness has rubbed off on him, turned him into someone who would willfully run into gunfights and follow a man despite being court-ordered not to. So he takes a breath and he _tries_ , and no one can fault him for that.

\---

(“You were that crazy kid in kindergarten who’d always run around with the scissors wide open, weren’t you?” Wes accuses with narrowed eyes, giving Travis a little shove.

Travis laughs, leans over and pokes him back. “And I’ll bet you were that kid that always closed them and walked carefully and slowly every time, huh?”)

\---

Travis is acting strangely.

It’s not something Travis does or says that catches Wes’s attention. It’s what he _doesn’t_ say, actually. Travis is _loud_ , not just in word but in personality; even when he’s sitting quietly, he’s loud, a giant presence that doesn’t have to say a word to be noticed. (When Travis gets _quiet_ he gets small and empty, and that’s when Wes gets worried.)

He notices it not too long after everything with Crowl goes down. They’re better now, so maybe that’s why Wes is paying more attention. Or maybe it’s just that Travis goes _quiet_ , but not in a sad, small way, not in a way that Wes needs to get worried about. This is more of a pensive, thoughtful type of quiet.

He doesn’t pay it any mind, because it’s not impacting any of Travis’s work, and he figures, if Travis has something to say, he’ll say it. 

Then one day, when Travis is pensive and quiet, Wes glances up and finds his partner staring right at him.

For a long moment, Wes is caught by the look in Travis’s eyes, the distant, far-off gaze of someone thinking and thinking and thinking, a look he’s not sure he’s ever seen on Travis’s face before. And he’s staring right at Wes, which probably means he just happened to look at Wes when he drifted off, but still…

“Travis?” he asks, and Travis jumps like he’s been tasered, tearing his gaze away when he realizes Wes is watching. And that… Wes frowns. “What is it?”

“Nothing, man.” Travis waves a hand, hurriedly picking up a pen. “It’s nothing.”

Wes frowns and looks back down at his paper. And he would totally believe it’s nothing, just Travis letting his mind wander in order to get out of paperwork, except ten minutes later Travis is staring at him again.

“Do you have something to say?” he demands.

Travis starts guiltily and hunches over his desk. “No, man, it’s nothing.”

“Because if you do, just _say_ it already.”

“Seriously, it’s nothing to worry about.”

Wes tightens his jaw and gets back to work.

Five minutes later he throws down his pen and snaps, “Okay, seriously, is there something on my face?”

“No.” Travis shakes his head, scowling, but aimed more at himself than Wes (Wes has made that kind of self-directed look often enough to recognize it). “No, man, your face is fine.”

Wes taps his fingers against his desk, glaring at his partner. Travis stubbornly refuses to look up.

He goes and checks in the bathroom anyway, just to be on the safe side. Travis is right. His face is fine.

So then what the _hell?_

\---

It’s easy, in the hustle and bustle of their day, to not notice something small. However, once he _has_ noticed, something, it’s impossible to keep from noticing it again and again when it keeps happening.

(That happened when he loaned Travis a pen once, because Travis gnaws on the ends of his pens, and that’s not something Wes ever noticed before until he got his pen back and the end had been _chewed on_ , and now it’s something Wes notices _all the time_ , god, it drives him to distraction. Staplers aren’t the only office supply Travis is no longer allowed to borrow from Wes’s desk anymore.)

Travis keeps staring at him, at the precinct and in the car and sitting across from each other at lunch. He stares at Wes and he’s thinking, thinking, thinking like his life depends on it. Wes figures Travis is just trying to find the words to say something, to tell him something, so he waits.

But Travis doesn’t say anything. And the looks get longer and the frowns get deeper and Wes doesn’t have any idea what it’s all about.

\---

He thinks about bringing it up in group, about telling Dr. Ryan _Travis is being quiet and it’s annoying me_ , or _Travis acts like he wants to say something but he never does_. Of course, if he does bring it up, it’ll prompt all sorts of questions about why it’s bothering him and how he _feels_ about it, and Travis will get away scot-free because he’s damn good about turning everything around on Wes.

And the thing is, he honestly doesn’t even know _why_ it bothers him so much. Travis isn’t as shallow as he makes himself out to be; he’s allowed to have deep, pensive thoughts he ponders for weeks on end. But Wes is used to Travis being loud and brash and reckless, and this sudden change just. It annoys him.

Maybe it’s just because he doesn’t know what Travis is thinking, what’s got him pondering such deep thoughts, and so much of their relationship has been built on knowing what the other person is thinking _without_ needing words.

(Clearly they do need words _some_ of the time, hence the whole couple’s counseling thing, but words have never been their strongest method of communication.)

Maybe he’s just annoyed that Travis is usurping his position as the overthinker in their partnership. He’s petty enough to admit that’s a possibility.

\---

Wesley Mitchell is not a reckless person, and Travis Marks is not a cautious person. This is a fact of life. But there are degrees to these things, and Wes is not so far down on the scale of cautiousness as he was a decade ago. It’s all Travis’s fault, but Wes has gotten used to this revelation.

It has not occurred to him, in all of these years, to wonder if the same is true for Travis.

Maybe because they’re still categorized as ‘the cautious one’ and ‘the reckless one’, because the changes in Wes aren’t so overt that anyone besides Alex would notice. And anyway, none of them knew him before he joined the department—there’s no one who would have even noticed the change.

Maybe it’s because Wes falls under Travis’s spell. Travis is so very good at putting up this slick, shiny façade, the one that says _Everything’s fine, nothing to see here folks_ , and that leads people to believe that everything really _is_ fine, all the way through. But it’s not; Wes has seen enough of Travis’s vulnerabilities over the years to know that Travis is kind of fucked up. (But then, Wes is kind of fucked up too, so they sort of even out.)

And he _knows_ better—he _should_ know better—but Travis is so damn good at projecting this perfect face and Wes sometimes gets sucked up in it. So he ends up thinking that Travis is fine, everything’s fine, and Travis hasn’t changed a bit.

(But of course he has. They all have.)

So it never occurs to him that this thinking and thinking Travis is doing is his way of being cautious, of working his way through all the potential possibilities and futures in front of him before he makes a decision.

It doesn’t occur to him because Travis isn’t the cautious one. That’s not the way it works.

\---

They’re in group, and Rozelle snaps something at Clyde about how _You weren’t like this when we met_ , and Clyde retorts back, _I must have gotten it from you then_ , and Dr. Ryan steps in before they can start throwing things and says, “It’s not uncommon to pick up traits from the people we love.”

And Wes glances over at Travis and thinks, _Well, that makes sense_.

And then his eyes widen and he thinks, _Oh_. 

_Holy shit._

That’s about when the floor falls out from under him.

\---

It’s not that he didn’t know he loved Travis—after all these years it’d be hard for them to be such great partners if he _didn’t_. But he always thought it was friendlier, more familial.

He really, really, until this moment, had no idea he was _in_ love with Travis.

It was different with Alex. That was slower, gentler, more of an easing into love than a fall. One day, he’d looked at her and he’d thought, _Oh, of course, it’s been happening all this time_ , and just like that he’d known.

With Travis, oh, with Travis it comes out of nowhere, a rush of feeling so huge Wes doesn’t know how he missed it before.

(Did Alex know? he wonders, Did she suspect? Was there more to their separation than a simple incompatibility? Because even he knows feelings this large don’t come out of nowhere—there has to be something to build on first.)

He’s not going to say anything, of course, not going to let this change anything. He has a good relationship with Travis—better, now, with Dr. Ryan’s help—and they’re doing so well at work and he can’t risk that with his _feelings_.

Besides, he and Travis, they’ve never had that great a relationship with feelings anyway. Better to just push those to the side and keep going as they have been.

Better not to risk anything.

\---

And then comes the case. It’s a simple, everyday case, the sort of thing they’ve done a hundred times again, except this time there’s a gun, and a shooting, and a bullet that grazes the inside of Travis’s arm, that scrapes along his ribs, and as the paramedics take him to the ER all Wes can do is fret and think about how close it was, how just a few inches to the side would have taken everything away.

And he never had any intention of talking about his feelings, was never going to let on how much he cares, but when Travis finds him at the hotel bar, hours later, when he leans against the counter with that familiar, crooked grin and says, “Little early to be hitting the whiskey, isn’t it?”—

He’s not going to say anything, never intended to say anything—

But it seems the most perfectly logical thing to reach up, wrap his hands in Travis’s jacket, and drag him down for a long, hot kiss.

And Wesley Mitchell is not a reckless person, he is the type who thinks everything through before making a decision, but he has been thinking and thinking _all afternoon_ , and all he can think about is how much he stood to lose and with Travis _right here_ —

God, it’s just really nice to _not think_ for one moment, to let his body and his instincts take over and just _feel_.

Beneath his hands, his lips, Travis stiffens, tenses, and in a rational world this is the point where Travis makes a run for it, so Wes tightens his fists and sticks his tongue in Travis’s mouth.

And then Travis sort of sighs and leans into the kiss, and Wes reminds himself that his life stopped being rational about three minutes after meeting Travis.

_Well_ , Wes thinks, _Okay then_ , and throws caution to the wind.

\---

They fumble their way up to Wes’s hotel room, and Wes really didn’t have this in mind when the evening started, but he’s certainly not complaining now.

And then, as they step into his room, Travis pulls back, and Wes recognizes that look in his eye, that constant churn of _thinking, thinking, thinking,_ and if it annoyed Wes before then it’s _really_ aggravating right now.

“Oh my god, stop _thinking_ ,” he groans, tugging Travis’s jacket off and throwing it to the floor. (That will bother him later. Right now he’s more concerned about latching his lips to the broad expanse of Travis’s neck and just hanging on tight.) “You’re so good at _not thinking_ , why start now?”

Travis chuckles, a low, warm rumble that vibrates up Wes’s jaw, and his hands are gentle on Wes’s back. “Man, you sure do know how to sweet-talk a guy.”

In retaliation, Wes nips at Travis’s shoulder and mutters, “Shut _up_ , Travis,” and Travis just chuckles again.

They stagger to the bedroom, and somewhere along the way Wes loses his jacket and also his shoes, but Wes hardly notices because his entire focus is on getting his hands on as much of Travis as he can reach. And then Travis is gently lowering him back onto the bed and okay, yeah, Wes can _definitely_ go with the flow—

And then Travis is pulling away, and Wes is left blinking at the ceiling.

“Seriously?” Scowling, he turns, glares at his partner, who is only sitting on the other side of the bed but it might as well be _miles_. _“Seriously?”_

And Travis gives him a small little smile, kind of sad and kind of hesitant, and he says, “I’m not going to do this, Wes.”

“Seriously,” Wes says, once more with feeling, “You’re telling me you don’t want this?”

“Not a matter of _want_ , baby,” Travis says with a chuckle, and Wes has never heard a laugh sound so strained. “But I’m not doing this. Not with you. Not like this.”

Wes has a sharp retort all ready, right there on his tongue, but then he sees the look in Travis’s eyes, _thinking_ and _thinking_ and _thinking_ , futures spiraling out before him (before _them_ ), and all of a sudden Wes realizes what this is.

Travis is being _cautious_. Travis fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants Marks is weighing all the options, reviewing all his choices before making a fully-informed decision.

(It has not occurred to him, in all of these years, to wonder if some of his cautiousness has rubbed off on Travis, the same way that Travis’s recklessness has made itself home in his skin.)

“Travis,” he says, reaching out, fumbling for his partner’s hand, “Hey, _hey_ , you’re not—you won’t mess this up.”

Because he of all people knows how easily caution can become an excuse, how it can warp fears until they’re so big that standing still seems the only valid option.

(He wonders if he ever would have realized that without Travis, if it took finding someone who lived—seemingly unfettered—by fear to realize what a tangled web he’d woven around himself.)

And he, of all people, knows exactly how deeply these sorts of _feelings_ scare his partner (scare them _both_ ).

“ _We_ won’t,” he promises, and when he finds Travis’s hand, he squeezes.

Travis’s smile, when he makes it, is still much too wobbly for comfort. “You’re drunk, Wes.”

“I am _not!”_ he snaps, offended, as if _alcohol_ is why he was all over his partner. Travis gives him a _look_ , and Wes sullenly amends, “ _That_ drunk. Okay, it was a few shots, but I feel totally fine.” 

“Of course you do,” Travis mocks, and Wes would totally be annoyed by the patronization except Travis is looking so much less sad, and if mocking Wes is what it takes, Wes can live with that. 

Travis sighs, sweeping his thumb over the back of Wes’s hand. “Look, Wes, we’re… You’re drunk, and I was hurt today. That’s…that’s a lot going on. So maybe we just…we should wait until we’re both a little more clear-headed, okay?”

Which is a perfectly sound, reasonable suggestion and it’s really _annoying_ , god, no wonder Travis gets so frustrated all the time when Wes starts talking sense and caution.

“Fine,” he grumbles, rolling onto his stomach and burying his face in the coverlet. “ _Fine. Whatever._ I don’t care. Go away.” And it’s petulant and childish and Wes is definitely going to blame it on the alcohol if Travis brings it up.

But Travis doesn’t say anything, just laughs another one of those warm little laughs and curls up behind Wes, close enough Wes can feel the warmth of his skin, can hear the beat of his heart, can smell the musk of his cologne, and some of the fears that have lain cold and heavy in his stomach all afternoon (since he heard the gunshot, saw the bright red blood staining Travis’s shirt) dissipate.

They’ll talk in the morning, but for once, Wes doesn’t let worries about the future keep him up. He just closes his eyes, and, with Travis _right there_ and _safe_ , falls asleep between one breath and the next.

\---

Wesley Mitchell is not a reckless person, and Travis Marks is not a cautious person.

Except when they are.

\---

When Wes wakes, it takes a sadly long time for his brain to kick into gear without coffee, so he ends up staring at Travis’s shoulder for at least fifteen minutes before he realizes what, exactly, he’s looking at. Then, when he _does_ realize…

Well, he’s honestly a little surprised Travis _stayed_.

By this time, Travis is awake (how long has he been awake? Wes has no idea) and is watching Wes, an indulgent, mocking grin on his lips, and Wes knows he will be teased about his coffee-zombie status _forever_.

In order to deflect that even just a little bit, Wes reaches out, fitting his hand to the curve of Travis’s shoulder, skin soft and warm beneath his hand.

“You were that crazy kid in kindergarten who’d always run around with the scissors wide open, weren’t you?” Wes accuses with narrowed eyes, giving Travis a little shove.

Travis laughs, leans over and pokes him back. “And I’ll bet you were that kid that always closed them and walked carefully and slowly every time, huh?”

Wes isn’t pouting, because Wes Mitchell doesn’t pout. “It’s not a bad thing to be cautious,” he says (a little petulantly—okay, so maybe he is pouting, but he’ll never _admit_ it). “To think things through.”

Travis’s grin just gets wider. “Exactly how much thought did you put into it before you shoved your tongue down my throat, then?”

Wes gives him another shove, then rolls grumpily over, glaring at the ceiling. “Shut up.”

Travis huffs a little chuckle, scooting up beside Wes and wrapping his arm around Wes’s waist. “There’s nothing wrong with being a little reckless either, you know,” he declares. “It’s like the captain says. Everything in moderation.”

“Captain Sutton has _never_ said that.”

“Really?”

Wes rolls his eyes. “It is, however, in every commercial for everything ever.”

“Ah. Well, I knew I heard it somewhere.” Travis shrugs, and it’s so completely _stupid_ , but Wes can’t help but smile a little.

Travis sees it. Wes knows Travis sees it, because he huffs another one of those little laughs, then leans up on his elbow and drops a kiss right on the corner of Wes’s mouth. Before Wes can lean up into the kiss, maybe have the kiss devolve into something else, Travis falls right back down, snuggling up to Wes’s side.

Well. Wes supposes this is okay too.

Less than a minute later, Travis grumbles, shifts, and then bodily rolls Wes onto his side. “Seriously?” Wes asks as Travis curls himself into his new position, tucking up against Wes’s back with his knees in the crook of Wes’s.

“Shut up,” Travis grumbles, arm tightening around Wes’s waist, and he jams his nose against the back of Wes’s neck.

“Why am _I_ the little spoon?”

“Because you’re just so spoonable. Now shut up and cuddle.”

Wes grumbles some more, but it’s just for show and they both know it. If he really minded, he’d be up and out of this bed in a heartbeat.

Instead, he lays there, draping his arm over Travis’s on his waist, so their fingers can slowly twine together. And as they lay there, he can’t help thinking, wondering what this is going to do to their relationship, because he is by nature a cautious man, no matter what recklessness may have rubbed off over the years, and the alcohol last night may have lowered his defenses but he’s just not the type of person to do something like this without thinking about the consequences. He may not have thought about them _before_ , but he’s sure as hell wondering about them _now_.

What if this doesn’t work out, just like all of Travis’s relationships? What if it falls apart, and then _they_ fall apart and not even Dr. Ryan can help them? What if _Wes_ is the one who can’t handle, can’t deal, can’t risk himself in another relationship after the way he and Alex scorched and burned?

What if it _does_ work out?

“Oh my god, stop _thinking_ ,” Travis groans, nipping softly at Wes’s neck.

Wes, lovingly, jabs his elbow into Travis’s ribs. “How could you possibly know I’m thinking?”

“I can hear the little hamsters in your brain running. Give the poor things a _rest_ , man.”

Wes frowns. “Hamsters?”

“Yes, hamsters, and they are _tired_ so just lay there and cuddle, dammit,” Travis orders, and Wes rolls his eyes but gives in.

Wesley Mitchell is not a reckless person.

He has found, however, that there are some benefits to acting without thinking.


End file.
